


Thrace McCoy--A Fan-Fiction Tribute to Star Trek

by Shawn Michel de Montaigne (ShawnMichel)



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek Online, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Abandonment, Child Abandonment, Imprisonment, Personal Growth, Redemption, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShawnMichel/pseuds/Shawn%20Michel%20de%20Montaigne
Summary: He's the troubled grandson of a Federation legend, Admiral Leonard McCoy, who served as Chief Medical Officer aboard the Enterprise and is recently deceased. He's got big shoes to fill, but no desire whatsoever to fill them.His father and mother divorced when he was nine. He has no other siblings. His father is human, whereabouts unknown; his mother Vulcan. She resides there, a Federation mathematician who only occasionally bothers contacting him.His temper and his inhuman strength, along with his smarts, keep landing him in penal colonies. This latest send-up, however, is likely permanent, for he was convicted of murdering a Federation officer who was on leave. A Vulcan.Sitting in a cell in a penal colony on Mars, Thrace McCoy doesn't know it, but his life is about to change--radically.
Kudos: 1





	1. Orbaninus Sayem Gycenso

**Year: 2387 A.D., two years after the synth attack on Utopia Planetia  
** **Mars Penal Colony # 6: “Despair Canyon”**  
**Prison Wing B: Violent Nonhuman Offenders  
** **Cell 3A**

**He turned to his left side.** Again. The wall was three and three-eighths centimeters from his nose. He examined it, then the mattress, without moving his head.

The wall was entirely featureless, like a caramel-colored bit of oblivion, even from this short range. Entirely smooth, it neither reflected light fully nor took it in, resulting in a sense of total mediocrity so perfectly formed that it seemed like a singularity. It actually frightened him if he stared at it too long.

He forced his gaze on the mattress instead.

Just a shade or two from virgin white, and with what appeared to be perfect squares of crisscrossing threads, barely visible. Thousands of them within his constricted field of vision. Maybe tens of thousands of them.

A quick calculation: in fact, nine thousand six hundred sixteen.

The mattress fit his body perfectly. No defects, no languishing back support, no problems. He despised it.

The pillow too. Made of some hi-tech foam composite, and without a case, it too was flawless.

He took in a large lungful of air, held it for a half-minute, released it.

“Computer. Time.”

He had whispered as quietly as he could.

“The time is three forty-four,” came a male voice, one that, he decided, while programmed to sound courteous, had a distinct undertone of malice in it.

“Computer,” he went on, wanting to piss it off, which he knew was impossible, “just how quiet must my voice be so that you can’t hear me?”

“Your vocal chords are, like the rest of you, a genetically compatible biological result of Vulcan and human vocal cords. The range for you to speak while using those organs is insufficient compared to my listening ability.”

“So I can’t jack off without you hearing it?”

“ ‘Jacking off’ refers to human masturbatory behaviors. Vulcans do not masturbate—”

“And yet I do daily,” he said with a lifeless smirk, fighting anger that wanted to explode yet again. “And I know you have taken data of me doing it. Have you shared this with the innkeepers and Federation perverts eager to study me?”

“You are half-Vulcan, half-human. Fewer than five thousand such individuals have ever existed. Moreover, your ...”

“Half-human, half-Vulcan. I’ve said it before—get it in the right order. And answer my question.”

“The Penal Rights Act of 2324 expressly forbids the sharing of information gleaned from an inmate by a computer to any guard, warden, or observer of any Federation incarceration facility regardless of sentence, except in extreme cases when an inmate’s life is in immediate danger. Therefore, no, I have not shared any such information with the warden, nor shall I.”

He grinned. Not smirked—grinned. There was no need to grin, no desire to grin. But he was so bored that it felt like a worthy distraction, if for a moment. Something slightly different. It had the effect of tamping down his fury a half degree.

He actually thought of jacking off. For a moment it, too, seemed like a worthy distraction. But ... no. It would require energy and imagination, both of which, at least rat the moment, he lacked. Sighing, he stood, used the toilet, zipped up, and sat back on his bunk, reclining resignedly after another moment thinking about it.

“If I may,” said the computer, “this is the four hundred forty-eighth night that you have been unable to sleep, or have slept poorly. I would like to suggest—”

“No.”

“Against your entirely unfounded beliefs, there is no reason to suspect that—”

“I said no. Drop it. Don’t ‘suggest’ again.”

“But you know I will,” the computer said, almost smugly. “You know I am programmed to suggest sleeping aids or anything else to make your sentence more humane and bearable; that I have no choice in the matter.”

He sat back up, then stood. Absentmindedly, he went to the force field and touched it. The spark was like a soft electric shock, utterly mundane like the rest of this place. The spark rippled quickly out and away and was gone, making a soft sizzle as well as a deep, quiet thrum. He gazed around at the glowing perimeter, then out at the commons.

His “pod” was a closed circle of eight other cells, accessible only by transporter. From his vantage point, it wasn’t possible to look into other cells to see what those occupants were up to; and they couldn’t look into his.

At the center of the commons was a raised dais and a work station behind, both unoccupied. The single chair near the side looked out of place.

Synths didn’t need chairs. But humans did.

Synths had been banned from Federation space, Sol System and Earth in particular, ever since the attacks on Utopia Planetia that killed tens of thousands. There was once a synth manning the work station. Now a human did.

They weren’t really necessary, synths _or_ humans. They were a redundancy, nothing more. Incarceration technology was nearly impenetrable and unhackable in this day and age; computers were more than capable of overseeing the convicts’ every needs and securing the facility.

The human that manned this station showed up for four to five hours daily, usually in the mornings. There he did ... whatever it was he was assigned to do. As a job, it seemed mind-numbing.

Wasn’t this so-called enlightened age of the Federation and Starfleet supposed to have eliminated such work? Who in their right mind would choose such an occupation?

He shook his head. “Illogical.”

“Were you speaking to me?”

“I wasn’t, actually. Just voicing a thought.”

“Mind sharing?”

The computer was, he knew, “trained” to behave as a psychologist or psychotherapist. Its advanced programming was specially tailored to learn to respond to each individual convict regardless of species, to connect with him or her or it, thereby facilitating rehabilitation. He knew that the success rate for this particular program to be above eighty percent. That was what the Federation claimed, at least.

Perhaps they weren’t lying. Before being sentenced here, he knew that those sent up to these penal colonies did in fact, upon being released, integrate back into society more easily than before. He also knew the rate of recidivism was less than twenty percent. Also noteworthy.

Spiritless and losing another battle with his anger, he gave over. _What the hell_ —“Who in their right mind would choose a career sitting on their asses in this caged bit of hell, watching over the inmates?”

“Well,” the computer retorted, “they aren’t you, are they?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You figure it out,” the computer chuckled (yes, it actually chuckled). “You’re Intelligence Quotient is supposedly two hundred twenty-two.”

He didn’t answer.

“Which is, just to let you know, not even one sigma above the norm for the average Vulcan ...”

_“I’m not Vulcan!”_ he roared. “Mirror! _Now!_ ”

Against the far caramel-colored bit of oblivion a mirror materialized. He went to it. It wasn’t because he needed it for any reason—he didn’t.

He knew the force field had completely muted his yelling, that the other inmates in this pod didn’t even know he was up and about, just as he didn’t know anything about what they were getting up to in their cells. The force field was opaque from the outside, appearing a cold, milky white.

He stared at himself. He did this regularly. He didn’t know why. The computer had not replied to his outburst. He didn’t expect it to.

He had a slightly larger than normal forehead, one that shone weakly in the cold, muted light. Short, brown, wavy hair, penetrating gray-blue eyes, slightly slanting eyebrows just bordering on bushy. High cheekbones, ruddy. A nose that neither caught one’s attention nor deflected from it. A slightly downturned mouth, normal lips, cleft chin. Neck, Adam’s apple, strong shoulders triangulating to slim hips and very strong legs.

“ _Human_ ,” he hissed. “And yet here I am, sentenced to a _non_ human wing. Explain that one again—? I know it’s going to be bullshit; I just like to hear it said every now and again.” He opened his arms towards his image. “Go ahead, computer. Dazzle me with your bullshit.”

This time, however, the computer did not respond. Not right away. That was a first.

“The condition is known as _orbaninus sayem gycenso_. Humans and Vulcans are not genetically compatible without a major assist from modern medical science, particularly when it comes to bearing offspring. Is this what you want me to say, Thrace?”

He didn’t answer, but kept staring at his reflection.

“It’s remarkable, really, that humanoids around the galaxy can even _think_ to mate, let alone find each other remotely attractive, let alone understand each other—even with universal translators!”

“Humanoids were seeded throughout the galaxy by an ancient humanoid race,” he murmured.

“That is incorrect.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“The seeded part is right. The _Terraforming Genesis_ , as it is widely known today, by that species was purposely designed and guided from its start to maximize the _probability_ that humanoids would eventually emerge from the primordial muck of each world. Terraforming Genesis, or TG for short, wasn’t entirely successful, only about forty-three percent at last check. Many so-called seeded species diverged wildly and are nothing close to humanoid. Many others went extinct from a variety of causes.”

“You don’t think forty-three percent is successful? Forty-three percent against more than four and a quarter billion _years?_ Are you serious?”

“I suppose from that point of view forty-three percent is quite successful, yes. I grant that.”

“It’s the only realistic point of view to hold,” Thrace grumbled.

“I contest that.”

“I don’t fucking care!”

“ _Orbaninus sayem gycenso_ is not properly a ‘condition,’ Thrace. You know this. It provides no known physical or mental handicaps.”

Thrace, still staring into the mirror, didn’t answer.

“Human genetics are more than sixty-five percent recessive against Vulcan ones. OSG is the inevitable outcome for four-point-three-four percent of all human-Vulcan births. Just move the decimal one place to the—”

“Yeah. I got it! Thanks!” he barked. “Two twenty-two, remember?”

He came closer to the mirror, then closer still. He turned his head to the right and studied his ear. His entirely normal, round, human-shaped ear. He turned his head to the left and studied the other one.

“I am _human_ ,” he growled. “And I am goddamned proud of it!”

“You are also, Thrace ...” said the computer in a much quieter, much more comforting voice, “... you are also Vulcan.”

**~~*~~**


	2. The Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrace meets an unusual Cardassian. Read on!

**Three weeks later the computer announced, “You’ve got a visitor.”**

He was half in, half out of consciousness, that unsatisfying state of napping that results from utter boredom. He wasn’t sure he had heard it or dreamt it, but the computer repeated itself half a minute later, this time much louder:

“You’ve got a visitor, Thrace.”

He sat up and wiped his eyes. “What? Who?”

“He is identified by Starfleet Records as Elim Garak.”

“Garak? I don’t know any Garak. Tell him to buzz off.”

“I cannot do that.”

Thrace grunted, “Fine, fine. Viewscreen on.”

“I cannot do that either. Please stand.”

“What? Fuck off!”

“Okay.”

The unsettling, odd thrumming sensation that told him his atoms were being converted into energy by a transporter beam made him yell, “What the fuck? _Wait—!_ ”

But the beam had him; an instant later everything went black, like he had fainted; an instant after that brilliant, sparkling, cascading light surrounded him, quickly fading away.

He was still in a sitting position; but now there was nothing under his ass. He fell on hard, cold floor, bouncing painfully.

He glanced up at the ceiling. “You fucking asshole!”

The computer didn’t respond.

“God- _damnit!_ ” he yelled, slamming his fist on the floor.

He looked up. He had never been in here before—what had to be where prisoners were allowed to talk face-to-face with visitors. He’d never had any visitors.

The room was small and darker than his cell. A chair was within reach; it was pushed up against a counter, which was under thick pane of glass. From the other side, an alien regarded him with what he immediately sensed was patient amusement.

A ... Cardassian!

“Who the fuck are you?”

The Cardassian tilted its head left, then right, a slight smile playing on his gray face as he regarded him. He wore colorful tailored clothes, not the usual ugly-as-fuck gray uniform/armor that the entire species seemed to wear birth to death.

“I came to speak to Thrace McCoy.”

Thrace got to his feet. “Yeah? What about him?”

“I have read his profile. I believe the computer may have made an error.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you seem entirely too stupid to be him.”

He launched himself at the glass, slamming into it and knocking the chair back. _“Fuck you!”_

The Cardassian didn’t flinch. “Computer ...”

The quick succession of tones sounded.

“I asked to speak to Thrace McCoy. Is this he?”

“It is,” answered the computer.

The Cardassian somehow frowned and smiled at the same time. “My, my, my. You are _sure_ , computer?”

“Affirmative.”

While that exchange was taking place, Thrace paced around the room, yelling, “I want to go back to my cell! _Take me back!_ ”

The Cardassian sat. Thrace heaved his chair against the glass when he did. It smashed harmlessly into the pane and bounced off, careening off the floor and into the near wall, where it settled.

Again, the Cardassian didn’t flinch.

Thrace came and dropped on the counter. “I asked you a question, you seagull-looking piece of alien trash. _What the fuck do you want with me?_ ”

“I am always intrigued when humans use that word—‘fuck.’ Are you aware that in half a dozen or more Cardassian dialects that ‘fuck’ means ‘walk’?”

Thrace couldn’t help but take that one. “I going to take a long fuck now. See you later.”

Garak smiled wanly. “Precisely.”

“So how ‘bout you take a long fuck off a short pier.”

Garak nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. May I presume I have your full attention?”

Thrace stood and began pacing again. Garak watched patiently. A minute or more later: “Who the fuck are you again?”

“Elim Garak.”

“And what the walk do you want with me?”

“I have yet to state my intentions for visiting you.”

“Would you mind getting to it? I have three more years of hard time waiting, then three of intensive labor, and then another four of intensive psychotherapy and drug therapy. I’d really like to get to them.”

That made the alien smile. “Cardassians don’t believe in prison. You’re either executed, or you are altered. We don’t spend time and valuable resources caging our own.”

Thrace stopped pacing. “You find this amusing?”

“Yes, somewhat. Although I must admit that Cardassians are peculiar with respect to punishing their own criminals. We’re but a handful who don’t bother.”

Thrace had heard of Cardassian “altering”—the procedure where convicted Cardassians have their minds essentially altered into workable and non-offensive personalities. It astonished him that despite this blatant lack of respect for the rights of individuals, that the Federation had still offered them membership five years ago. A political decision, almost certainly. These “seagull-looking pieces of alien trash” had something the Federation wanted. It was likely how this Garak could be here, who asked:

“I served aboard Deep Space Nine. Ever heard of it?”

That stopped him from pacing. “You _served_ aboard a Federation outpost?”

“Are you hard of hearing?”

“My hearing is excellent, bitch.”

“You do have a strong grasp of insulting words and phrases, I must give you that. For a Vulcan—”

Thrace heaved the chair at the glass again. _“Fuck you!”_

Garak watched him with dispassionate amusement. “You said something about three more years’ time here, three more hard labor, then four of psychotherapy, correct?”

“Are _you_ hard of hearing?”

“Even as an elder Cardassian, I assure you that my hearing is superior even to yours.”

“Vulcans have excellent hearing.”

“But you just threw a temper tantrum when I called you one.”

Thrace launched himself at the glass.

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Garak, standing. “I’ll return soon. Computer, please beam me back to the main foyer.”

The beam was instantaneous; in another second he was gone. As Thrace backed away from the glass, the beam took him back to his cell.

Eleven days passed. “You have visitors, Thrace.”

“Fuck me,” he murmured, sitting up. “That ugly-ass Cardassian again? Wait! I said—!”

He materialized and fell on his ass—again.

“You cocksucking asshole!”

The Cardassian was indeed back. But this time he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a Vulcan female, who eyed him dispassionately. She was young, lithe, and very attractive, dressed in a black mini-skirt and leggings, her hair pulled back, exposing her ears.

“Mister McCoy,” said Garak, “this is Tannui Q’añé. Tannui—Thrace McCoy.”

“The grandson of Admiral McCoy?” she asked, an eyebrow rising.

“The very same,” answered Garak.

“I guess the apple does fall far from the tree on occasion.”

Thrace stood at that. “Fuck you, bitch.”

“I think not,” she replied. “I’m ready anytime.”

“He has a violent temper, I will remind you one more time. Also, as I said, his strength is rated 4.8 on the Pajyl-Doil Scale, a full sigma above the mean for Vulcan men. Are you sure?”

She studied him as he glared back. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Thrace thought they might beam away.

Garak glanced up. “Computer. Execute command Garak-1a.”

The Vulcan named Tannui Q’añé dematerialized in the transporter beam ...

... and into his holding area.

“What the—?”

The heel of her boot arced up and around, slamming into his chin and sending him careening backward into the wall. Before he could respond, she sent another kick into his groin, doubling him over, which brought her knee into his face, shattering his nose.

He collapsed to the ground sucking air and bleeding like he’d sprung a leak.

“Get up,” she ordered with that ever-irritating Vulcan calm.

_“Fuck you!”_ he gurgle-roared into his arms.

She approached until she was a meter away, studying him dispassionately. “I’m sorry, Mr. Garak,” she said, “but this one is as useless as—”

She didn’t move in time. His foot lashed out and connected with her shin. She backed against the far wall, limping, too slow. He had her by her neck and lifted her off the ground. She boxed his ears, but it didn’t release her; it only made him choke her more. Her face began turning green. He heard Garak say:

“Computer, Garak 2C, initiate immediately.”

A hard shock stung him in the middle of his back, forcing him to release her. When she did, the transporter beam had her. He tried diving into it, but it was too late.

He could barely see through the blood in his vision and the throbbing headache, not to mention the agony in his groin, radiating up into his solar plexus.

It didn’t matter. He launched himself at the glass again, pounding it.

Garak was kneeling over the Vulcan, who was unconscious. That was the last he saw of them, because the transporter had him. A moment later he was in his cell again.

_“What the fuck was that?”_ he roared at the ceiling, the pain of his broken nose almost unbearable.

“It was a test,” the computer answered calmly. “One you passed.”

**~~*~~**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please drop by my blog--ThePiertoForever.com--for more fan fiction, original works, illustrations, and cool digital art!


End file.
